


Simple & Clean

by moon_opals



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Character Study, Duck Feels, F/M, Family Feels, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 01:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11978943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: Family of choice is something Daisy learns the hard way. It ends with Donald.





	Simple & Clean

Accident softens the impact. Daisy does not want to be softened.

What she says is reflex, an immediate reaction to his retort. But that's the problem with words. Once you've set them free, you can't take them back. You can't refund them.

He pulls back as if struck. Color drains from his feathers, if it's possible. Her bill snaps shut. Anyone else may anticipate a full blown quack out, but Daisy knows better. He cannot say anything for there is nothing left to say. It is enough for him to walk away.

She does not chase after him.

\--

Family has meaning. She loves her parents and her siblings, but Daisy knows this is merely obligatory love. An obligatory love compels her to call for birthdays, holidays, and anniversaries, to notify them of her continued existence while withholding important milestones of her life.

They know she exists. That she _lives_ is what they do not know.

Arriving home to a cold, frank darkness, Daisy showers and bundles for bed. She forgets about TGIF. She doesn't eat a cup of her chicken broth noodles. She doesn't try to send him a text or call. Wrapping her hair, she lets her head fall on the feathered pillow, grotesque in its own right, and lulls herself away.

She tries not to dream of the hollow expression on his face as he disappears into the crowd.

\--

It takes her three days to admit something is wrong. In those three days she sends a solitary text apologizing, and receives no response.

A lack of response should rise her to fury, but the fault lies on her. Or him. Or them. What he says to her preceding is insignificant to her; her scathing retort burns deeply.

She wants to ask Minnie for her opinion. Sweet, kind, sensible Minnie will tell her a truth in a kind sort of way, but as she provides the board details for this month's Bow Conference, Daisy realizes Minnie is no longer a suitable confidante.

Minnie will tell her a truth. It is in Minnie's nature to be sensible, sympathetic. Her soothing truth is a band-aid on top of a gaping wound, and as a woman acutely aware of her needs, a more rigorous treatment is necessary. She maintains her silence during the meeting and works promptly, choosing to take an early lunch at a café rather than the confines of her office.

Daisy wants to choke on the windy, autumn day. Sitting at one of the balcony tables, she requests a vanilla latte with a grilled seafood salad. She has no appetite, but she has skipped breakfast. She doesn't want her stomach growls to fill her lunch hour as they tend to do.

As the waitress goes to fill her order, she pushes down on her contacts. Her thumb wavers above the name, debating whether it should press the bright blue call icon, but she remembers Donald's expression. The decision is difficult, but it isn't that difficult.

She picks at the grilled shrimp, dousing the salad with Caesar salad, and waits as the rings jingle in her ear. Maybe they won't answer. Hopefully they won't, and Daisy scolds herself. She wants to be answered. It's the reason why she's calling in the first place.

A click and Daisy stiffens. A ruffle of static makes her chew her lower lip, and a voice, so similar to hers but distinct, drawls on the other line, "Hello?"

Daisy drops her fork on the napkin, "Yes, hello, Donna?"

"Daisy?" She can hear the skepticism in her tone, "Maw was discharged two days ago. You were there."

 _I was there,_ she diverts to an easier, "Yes, this will only take a moment." An extraneous fight should always be avoided, "I'm calling for another reason."

A deliberate pause before, "What is it? I'm heading to the store, and after, May’s soccer practice."

Daisy tries not to cringe at the domesticity. She doesn't know why it sickens her, why she feels this revulsion racing through her veins. She straightens her back and nods, "I understand, so I'll make it quick. What do you like least about me?"

"Excuse me?"

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she repeats her question, "What is my greatest flaw, the feature of my personality you like least about me?"

Another pause, longer than the first, and Donna breathes. Daisy sees her arms crossing and back leaning against the wall, "You're _judgmenta_ l. You're _quick_ to anger. You look _down_ on people. You _hold_ grudges. You attack and don't think of the consequences, and most importantly, you don't _cherish_ your family."

 _Do they cherish me?_ She could ask this. _Do you cherish me?_   She fears the answer to this question. This isn't a truth Daisy is prepared for, "I see, thank you."

"And that's it?" Donna scoffs, "Typical."

Daisy rubs her eyes, wary of the headache assured to rise. Her better judgment tells her calmly to ignore the dangling bait. A harsher, less kind judgment snatches the bait from its lure, "What, Donna?"

"You take what you want, and you don't give anything back," she huffs, and yes, her arms are definitely folded, "Mom, Dad -,"

It takes a substantial amount of willpower to not scream at her sister then. A sharp inhale, Daisy lists calmly, feigning indifference as the latte bubble in her stomach starts to expand, “Clothes, food, a home, we had the essentials of every day survival.”

“And they _did_ that.”

“By _law_ , they did.” She speaks with unintentional finality, “The law _required_ them to give us food, clothes, a relatively clean environment to call home.”

Donna is shaking her head on the other side of the line. She’s ready to quack off on her, Daisy senses. There is no Maw or Abuelo to appease her, “You’re point? You asked a question, and I gave it.”

She stabs a baby tomato with a fork. _Should’ve asked to hold off on the tomatoes_ , “Thank you for that,” she sighs, “I’m not calling for a fight, I’m calling for...,” she doesn’t know exactly what it is, “self-reflection. You’re going to May’s soccer practice?”

“Yes,” a grunt accompanies her frosty response “and I’m going to be late.”

“Take the phone with you.” She slices the tomato in half, and it occurs to her, “You don’t have to go, do you?”

“What?”

“May’s soccer practice.” Daisy shrugs, and she plops lettuce and purple into her mouth, “You don’t _have_ to go to her soccer practice. It’s practice, and you’re not _going_ there to pick her up. You’re _going_ to watch.” _Which you’ve added to stroke your mom ego,_ Daisy wisely stores in her internal monologue. 

Donna pauses. Daisy hears her heels scratching the gravel, and suddenly, they stop. She might blow a gasket. This might be the trigger to set her off.

“Who did you hurt?”

Startled, Daisy finds herself silent, and Donna chuckles as an engine roars to life, “Of course, you hurt someone, and now, you’re trying to make it up. _Typical Daisy Duck._ ”

“And so what if I did hurt someone?” Bristling lightly, she turns down her rage near the other café patrons, “It isn’t as if you care.”

“You care enough to call me.”

A heavy silence swings between them. “Yes,” she admits, “I care enough to call you.”

The end of the call comes swiftly, and Daisy could not be more relieved.

\--

What else is she supposed to say? _I’m fucking your ex-boyfriend, and I need advice for a fight we had._ Well. The second half is true. Donald’s reluctance to introduce her to the boys along with their occupied schedules have deprived them from indulging in their primal needs. Not that Daisy is in a rush, and she understands, even respects his reluctance.

She smiles whenever she thinks about it. He wants something real, stable to introduce his boys to.

And yet, it makes it all the more frustrating.

After finishing her lunch she returns to work and spends the day in sullen silence. She avoids Minnie, her employees, and the work day concludes as it usually does. She works diligently, and does not check her phone twenty-five times throughout the afternoon.

He has not responded to her calls, and she has stopped trying.

Her plans are simple. She will stay over time this night and get some additional work done. Having to carry bundles of work in her MacBook irritates her nerves, and she wants to forget for a time, even if it’s only for a night. She needs calm. She needs quiet. She needs peace and self-reflection.

“Daisy?”

Minnie does not wait after the first knock, and moves quickly to her desk, “Have you checked your emails?”

“I checked it this morning.” She’s hopping on the ball of her heels, and her skirt is a little rustled. Daisy minimizes her Excel spreadsheet and goes straight to her email, “This better be about the inventory contract I requested two days ago.”

“No.” And the way she says no gives Daisy pause. She wheels the chair around so she’s facing her completely and she narrows her stormy grey eyes at her, “Minnie, I’m going on a hunch you know what this is about.”

Minnie grins cheekily, “Maybe…but you have to read it first! Coming from me won’t mean much if you don’t read it,” and she turns the chair back around facing the screen, “read it.”

Daisy is conflicted. Ah, she cannot help being interested in whatever has made Minnie so excited, which doesn’t take much at all if she’s being honest, but this jittery excitement is contagious. Going to her company email, she sees a new message in bright, bolded blue sits on top of the rest, and she clicks on it.

It takes her less than thirty seconds to read the message’s entirety, and she keeps her eyes locked on the screen when she asks, “And this was received when I was at lunch?”

“Yep!”

“And is it authentic, confirmed?”

“We had Clarabelle date and confirmed.” Minnie’s arms wrap gently around her neck, “They even had a callback, can you believe it?”

Daisy does not believe in coincidences. She does not believe in fate either. Sitting at her desk, staring at her computer screen, having her best friend/ex-girlfriend/co-founder of their business giggling manically behind her, she reaffirms life is having a pissing contest on how much it can screw her over.

_“Great.”_

\--

Going home is off the table. She will not be going home once this visit it done with, Daisy knows. Check into a hotel or something, but home is not an option. Minnie drives the company car gleefully. It’s for the best. Daisy needs a clear mind with this meeting, and this is usually the case when it concerns Scrooge McDuck.

Scrooge owns about 98% of Duckburg’s land. It’s an irrefutable fact, and one with a notable paper trail. McDuck makes Duckburg, and without him, it would surely fade into financial obscurity. As far as she knows the old man is still alive and kicking, reigniting his historical research, experimental tech, and deepsea underwater exploration departments.

Elvira Duck and Daisy Duck, no relation, lay claim to the 2% Scrooge does not own. Daisy has to admit she has always felt a bit of smugness about that. Her Paw made it clear what he thought of the property his family earned after the Civil War, and she has no intention of passing over her family legacy, not while she can do anything about it.

From what Minnie says, this has nothing to do about it. 

“He’s interested in our commission work,” she’s breathless with excitement, and Daisy feels a wave of nausea crash onto her, “he might’ve seen some of your work at that art gala a few months ago.”

“Yes, but that was for charity.” Which is why she did it that time. The last time she did a commission she was still living in Italy, “And why ask months later? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Does it have to?” Minnie makes a sharp turn as she shakes her head, “It’s Scrooge McDuck, doing a commission for him will boost sales and spread our reputation.”

“He’s a notorious miser who rarely spends good money on good things.” Daisy groans, bumping her head against the window, “It’s very unlikely we’ll make a substantial amount if I choose to do this.”

“It’ll do good for our reputation.” Minnie whines, and it grates Daisy’s ears to hear it. Like nails on a chalkboard, “The property our business is on is one of the few places Scrooge McDuck doesn’t own.”

“Two.”

“What?”

“There are two locations Scrooge McDuck doesn’t own,” Daisy explains, “Elvira Duck’s farm, Cornelius Coot’s granddaughter, and Jedidiah Duck’s property.”

Minnie yawns at the history lesson, “Yes, yes, as you’ve told me, and this is exactly why we should at least consider this commission.”

“It isn’t uncommon knowledge.” She wants to smack her friend on the side of the head, but Minnie’s a terrible driver. If it weren’t for her muddled thoughts, she would’ve taken over, “Google Duckburg’s founder.”

Minnie prepares a retort when McDuck Manor comes into view. Description is irrelevant. It is a very nice minor with an impeccable landscape. Its differences to other mansions Daisy has seen are minimal. Minnie rolls down the window to inform their hosts of their arrival, and Mrs. Beakley’s stern voice echoes in the car.

As the gate parts, Daisy tries to tie down the rocks that have settled in her stomach. She can do this. She has to do this. Her trepidation is no reason for her to ruin this opportunity.

Because as much as she dislikes Scrooge McDuck for his earlier slights against her family, she readily accepts the opportunities this commission offers, and she intends to exceed the best expectations. She swallows thickly and forces a smile they're aware is ridiculously fake. Minnie drives through with a brighter appearance.

\--

Daisy's memories are fluid. She is seven years old visiting her mother's parent's bakery. She and her sister run towards the back window when their older brother calls them. They crouch on the bags of flour, and he points to the man entering through the front. He is dressed in a red coat carrying a black cane and an equally black top hat. 

Her grandfather's grave expression makes her heart stumble. Scrooge McDuck's combative expression makes her heart race.

She has to give the old duck credit. He is consistent.  

“I need a painting done, Mrs. Mouse, and Ms. Duck.” He eyes her skeptically. Daisy knows he has not forgotten her, which brings her more relief than she can muster, “Actually, two paintings done.”

They’re standing in his private office on the second floor. Children’s laughter and antics are heard at a distance; he wants no disturbance during this meeting. Daisy can respect that. But their sounds remind her of what the manor holds, and she fidgets, pinching inside of her palm to steady herself.

As long as she can make it through this interview without having to see anyone, she will be okay.

“It depends on what I will be painting,” Daisy says politely, but a lined hardness lies in wait, a hardness Minnie lacks during these times, “what is the subject? What are you looking for exactly in your commission?”

Scrooge tilts his chin exactly so, “Ah, well, my previous artist died some years ago, as you would know,” he lifts his cane and points to one of the portraits near the window, “and he was an exceptional talent.”

The portrait near the window is of his family. She deduces the couple is his parents along with two young girls and an older man to the right. Daisy cannot say it’s strange to see a younger version of the old man seated in front her, but it is other worldly to see the child sitting at his father’s feet with a innocently proud smile on his face.

The blond must be Matilda, she observes, and the youngest, a toddler no older than three, Daisy’s head tilts. In spite of the mop of curly, auburn hair poorly hidden under a lilac bonnet, the resemblance is uncanny. A similar stubbornness lies dormant in her lightly colored eyes, _oh yes_ , there it is.

“I can imitate Mr. Barks perfectly.” This truth can be arrogant even when she does not intend it to be. She speaks factually with little exaggeration, “But I suspect you want something a bit more adventurous.”

To their surprise, Scrooge chuckles, “Aye, I like the way you think, lass.”

\--

Scrooge leads them around the manor expertly. He is not a graceful host. He’s cranky and to the point, but this is something Daisy appreciates. She carries strained patience for exaggerated flattery. She’s better than the best, he says, and it’s what he wants for his gallery. They will be paid accordingly, he admits, but they can tell it pains him having to say it.

He hammers his understanding on to them. What he expects is what she will give him. They travel through the manor with their less than stellar host, and Daisy can still hear the children playing in the distance. Where are they? It is difficult to tell. What are they doing? Daisy is not sure she wants to know. Donald has been forthcoming on his children, but from what she has gathered from him, they are active.

“You were a miner?” Minnie marvels a painting pushed to the side in a dark room, “And you carried all of that?”

“I did, who else was going to do it?” Scrooge steps aside to obscure the painting somewhat, but Daisy sees the woman dressed in gold, eyes as green as emerald.

“What do you want me to paint exactly?” His house boat is down in the pool, and she wants to go down there to meet him. This confuses and shames her, how much she wants to see him again, “I need to know what my subject is, also for reference purposes.”

“Here you go.” He procures two photographs, and Minnie takes them.

“The city of Atlantis,” Minnie stares and hands her another picture, “and the dragon did come from here too!”

The shots are perfect, frighteningly so. She wants to ask who exactly succeeded in taking these shots, but she knows she will go unanswered. And besides, her fingers graze over his figure, dashing and brave, and a little bit mad.

Daisy blinks away tears, and she bites down on the side of her lip. She does not cry, and especially not in front of a client.

“We’ve seen enough,” she says firmly, “and I’ll do it. I cannot give you a definite date, but it should not take me more than six months.”

Minnie can take care of the business when she is not available. It has happened before.

“Mr. Barks was famous for his comic book work, but his oil paintings are exceptionally renowned. I will have to take on special precautions for these,” she snap shot the paintings with her phone, “and that seems to be about it. Are there any questions?”

“The price?”

“Ah, Mrs. Mouse has my portfolio. In it is a list of the prices for various commissions.” Her unyielding tone is mild, “It is the job of the artist, you see, but we welcome you to negotiate where you see fit. Remember, we are fully aware of how much Mr. Barks received for his services."

“Lets get on with it!” Talk of spending money makes him irritable, which both of them anticipate when dealing with his kind, “Go on, go on, I have much work to do!”

“Under normal -,” _trials and tribulations, I’ve had my share_ cuts her off, and Daisy blinks at her vibrating phone, “Minnie, the prices are in the binder along with my portfolio, please excuse me.”

Daisy goes into the hallway, sidesteps the entrance so she is no longer in view. She tucks her phone on her shoulder, “What’s wrong now?”

“Oh, Daisy, the inventory contracts came in.” Clarabelle’s cowbell dangles around her neck, “And Peg Pete called about the real estate investment.”

Daisy starts to pace, “And what’s the verdict?”

“You know Peg, you’re on the run around with her,” Clarabelle sighs dramatically, and Daisy forces down the shout that rises to her throat, “but it’s turning out better than expected. We can open another store closer to the schools as planned!”

“That’s good. That’s _really_ good,” she looks out the window, and her breath stops in her throat. She knows where his houseboat is now, and she knows he is somewhere in the manor. But seeing him down below, scrubbing his deck, transforms the rocks in her stomach into soapy bubbles.

Clarabelle sounds far away now. Daisy fails to notice this.

“Wait, is he on his _phone_?” It’s selfish of her to say it. She is responsible for this rift. He may have started the fight, as per their normal, but she escalated it.

Her soapy bubbles boil into molten lava as she watches him dance on the deck of his houseboat. He’s talking to somebody, she can tell based on how precariously he holds his phone, and his tails swishes side to side as he moves in accordance to the music playing on an old boom box inside. She’s seen it. She offered an iPod, and he declined.

“Tell Peg I’ll call her back.”

A dangerously warning fissure stakes Daisy’s tone, “Are you sure? I can do that, you know, but…oh dear, Daisy, what are you doing?”

“I’ve got some business to attend to, Clarabelle,” she says with strained sweetness, “contact Minnie for an update with Mr. McDuck.”

She is resolved.

\--

Scrooge gives her a general overview to the pool in an answer to her question about what sort of cement was used for its creation, “Yes, yes, go on ahead, these prices are a travesty, Mrs. Mouse.”

“I won’t be long, Minnie.”

“Of course you _won’t_.”

If Minnie is displeased with Daisy’s sudden exit, she doesn’t take note.

She’s aware her emotions are fiercely irrational. She called him, and he did not answer. Acceptable. She accepts her fault in this travesty of a romance. He deserved time to cool off, and if he chose to, then he would call her.

When you say nasty, hurting things to your spouse you must rationalize your next actions, not justify your earlier ones, and respect their distance in the fallout. Daisy wants it. Donald deserves it. 

As she storms downstairs, the children’s voices have risen in volume. They must be nearby, but she’s upset. And when Daisy Duck is upset, she tends to blaze like wildfire.

But these are children, and Donald’s children no less. On a personal level, she despises objectivity. She finds it tedious, complicated, an obstacle broadening the distance between her ultimate goal. Her bill curls tightly in a scowl as she resolves to keep them away from her romantic problems with their uncle.

“Have you seen Webby?”

“I don’t know. I think she’s somewhere on the ceiling, but I can’t find her.”

“Eh, she’ll pull another kamikaze on us when she feels like it.”

Daisy realizes too late that these voices are coming _behind_ her. There is no time to hide, and if she wants to, and she does, she has nowhere to hide. There are too many wide windows, and not enough body length curtains.  _For fuck’s sake,_ she spins on her heels and comes face to face with the three nephews she has heard so much about.

She sees the dart guns in their hands. Their expressions change from casual to surprise to strangely guarded, and she stiffens her shoulders, portraying the same dominance reserved for conferences and meetings.

“My name is Daisy Duck, founder of _Minerva’s Daisy._ "  She coughs awkwardly into her hand, “I’m here on your uncle’s behalf.”

The green one, Louie – she corrects, stops her, “Sailor or rich guy, ‘cuz we’ve got two now.”

Daisy laughs despite herself, “Hmmm…how about both? Mr. McDuck requested me for an art commission, and I’m interested in his pool for artistic purposes.”

“We can show you, ma’am.” Huey offers and leads the way. _Aw, he is adorable,_ and Daisy stops herself because she has no idea where that came from.

They don’t say much to her. They talk amongst each other as children do. School, friends, and their fantastically new sleeping arrangements are covered in mumbled casualness. There is also something about a Mayan temple, she hears, but she doesn’t time to process that before she’s standing near the pool.

“Here you go, Miss Duck,” Huey gestures to the boat.

“And forgive our uncle,” Dewey groans, “he’s going through a cleaning phase right now.”

Daisy recognizes the typical pre-teen parental embarrassment. It’s cute.

“He wouldn’t have to if someone didn’t blow up the house boat,” Louie reminds them.

As they stand there, Donald takes no sight of them. He dances with the mop, phone resting somewhere on the side, and his nephews cringe at the sight. Her anger has simmered into slight annoyance and exhaustion, and she looks back at the boys.

“Can I borrow a dart gun?”

“Uh…sure, here you go ma’am.”

Huey’s politeness disarms her, and their relaxing atmosphere, _ah to be young_ , sweeps her off her feet. She wonders if they will feel the same when they find out the truth. So far she is only a woman working for their trillionaire great uncle.

It doesn’t matter. She’ll make her point known quickly, “Now, now, I’ve heard the three of you shouting throughout the manner,” she positions the dart gun exactly so, “now, a real one is heavy and carries a lot of firepower, so you have to build muscle and dexterity.”

“Random shooting lesson?” Dewey grins, “Sweet.”

“Keep your eye on the target. Remain quiet, remain calm, and you will…,” he is in her sights, a perfect sight in her opinion, and she pulls the trigger.

The dart hits its target with great hilarity.

Donald spurns into action, and they’re laughing below him. But soon, Daisy realizes, their laughter turns into shouts of fright when he slips on a sponge, and he’s suddenly falling into the pool.

 _“Take my phone!”_ Kicking off her heels she dives in, and takes hold of his collar before he has time to resist. She does not try to think what is going through his mind right now. All she focuses on is getting him out of the pool.

“Uncle Donald!”

Dragging him onto the concrete, she waits before performing CPR, “Donald?” When he doesn’t answer, she presses down on his stomach, and watches in amazement as a fountain of water sprouts from his bill.

He answers her with a gag, then a cough, and then a ducky roar of anger.

“What’s the big idea?” He storms around, unable to see them in his anger, “What’d I say about dart guns in the house.”

And there it is, the stand-alone dart that struck him in the head. The cause of this mess, and Daisy, who knows she should be angry, only laughs. She’s laughing hard, and she may be crying too. But she’s laughing mostly.

Hearing her laugh, his ranting stops, and he’s standing to her sitting, confused, “Daisy, what are you doing here?”

She doesn't know how she manages to, but she speaks through her giggles.

"I've _missed_ you," she wraps an arm around her stomach, rubbing her skirt's bottom on concrete, "and Donald, I _am_ sorry. I wanted to wait until you wanted to talk," she rests on her back and covers her eyes with an arm, "but then I saw you on your boat, and I came to yell at you. That's idiotic isn't it? 

“Uh...,” unsure of what to do, feeling three set of wide eyes on him, Donald swallows thickly. He is caught off guard. Her anger is always anticipated, always very nearby. He cannot foresee this, and forgets himself in the moment, so he says the only sensible thing he can thing of, “You came to apologize?”

“Yes.” He gives her his wing, and she takes it, “I wanted…I said a _nasty_ thing, and I should have never said what I said. I was wrong, and I am _so_ sorry.”

He stares at her almost in disbelief. It is impossible that she is here. It does not make any sense for her to be here, and yet, there she is, standing in front him. She is completely soaked. Her hair, so usually pinned its braided bun, falls down her back in thick, course curls. 

His eyes widen. It is the moment he realizes she is here for him, and Donald doesn't know what to do with that.

"I've --," suddenly shy, he twiddles his fingers, "I've missed you, and I'm sorry. I put my foot in my mouth. It's kind of my fault."

 "Yeah, you did start it, but it was not my job to finish it." Water flies freely as she shakes her head, "I escalated it when I should have tried to stop it, or at least compromise."

He smiles and leaves her absolutely helpless. Giddy bubbles pop one after the other, and the lava liquefies into fresh, cool water.

“Uncle Donald?”

They turn to the boys, and their shared look of shock confirms something they began to suspect the second she called his name in fear after slipping into the pool. 

Donald scratches the back of his head. They have had discussions in the past about this, and the plans were very specific. But he is Donald Duck, and his bad luck is legendary. 

“Well, you see, boys, this is Daisy Duck…,” she snatches the dart off his forehead.

He hisses at the sticky pain, “Thank you.”

“You're welcome."

Huey looks between their wet bodies, “So, you’re dating Daisy Duck, cofounder of _Minerva’s Daisy_ , and you _didn’t_ tell us?”

“Yeah," Donald scratches the back of his head, "we're technically in a transitional phrase."

 "A transitional phrase."

 Louie stares at the two of them and rolls his eyes, "You two are _way_ past the transitional phase. You know that right?"

They look at each other, sigh, and nod, "We know."

Daisy laughs and means it. This is not what she pictured when she expected the official label to their relationship, but she cannot complain as the three boys scold their uncle for this light deception.

“No wonder you’ve been staying out late these past few weeks,” Dewey muses, “we just thought you were going fishing with your dock buddies.”

“What? No!” He slaps his forehead and winces, “I – We, wanted to wait until…you were ready, and...,” he shakes his head, “sorry I didn’t tell you, but I needed to make sure this was something I wanted to pursue.”

“And is it?” The three of them look at him, and Daisy really wants to look away.

Donald’s gaze paralyzes her where she stands. Diverting attention is not an option, and she chooses for it not to be, “Yes, she is.”

 _Oh shit,_ “Yeah,” she squeaks in a small, almost inaudible voice, and Donald chuckles, “Yep, okay, enough emotional embarrassment for today. Minnie is probably wondering where I’ve gone to.”

“No, she isn’t.” Louie points to the upstairs window, “They’ve been watching the whole time.”

Right where he points there they are; Mr. McDuck, a little girl, and Minnie. Minnie clutches her hand to her mouth, tears swelling at the corners, and Mr. McDuck appears disinterested, as long as nothing is damaged, she supposes. The little girl is holding a dart gun in her hand, and her eyes are wide with surprise and excitement. 

 “Hm.” She wants to sink into the concrete, but it could be worse, she reminds herself, “At least you won’t be alone in all the bad luck.”

"That makes me feel _so_ much better."

He speaks sarcastically, but his tone is sincere.

\--

They don’t kiss at their departure. Daisy needs to return to work to settle the real estate business as well make preparations for the commissions, but he holds her hand a little tighter than usual.

“I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll pick up this time.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to Mexico,” the lack of communication is a real problem in relationships, she understands. This does not lessen her embarrassment from earlier, and she tries to push off. When he embraces her, digging his face into the crook of her neck, she feels it melt inside her shoes. 

She has dealt with worse days.

“I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch if I can make it,” she’s disappointed at releasing his fingers, and she feels relieved to see his expression mirror hers.

"No fast food," he warns as she enters the car, "the grease isn't healthy. I'll bring you lunch this time."

"What?" She holds onto the door with a cheeky grin on her bill, "It's filled with artificial meat, and the flavor comes from dropping it on the floor," she gasps comedically, to where her black feathers rustle at the movement, "and lets not forget the sickening amount of unhealthy chemicals to make the meat bigger and fatter. 

_"Daisy..."_

"Yes, Donald." She rolls the window down, "Twelve, remember that! I'll be waiting!" 

\--

Daisy wraps the towel around her hair. The rest of her has dried enough. Minnie takes hold of the steering wheel, and they drive in peaceful silence until they reach the freeway. 

"So, is it official now?"

Too tired to resist, Daisy smacks her lips in affirmation, "How long did you know?" 

Minnie shrugs, “About four months ago,” she smirks, “you have a tendency to hum when you’re happy, and you rarely hum at work. Either your sister was moving out of state, or you met someone. The latter was more likely."

“Good,” she shifts the towel on her hair. It is a good thing she did not straighten it today. Washing the chlorine out will be a chore tonight, but the curls haven't tangled yet, “I don’t have to explain anything to you now. It makes things easier for me.”

“It makes things easier _for_ me.” She makes a sharp turn onto the freeway, “Mickey is an old friend of his. He always had a temper, you know."

“His temper?” Daisy raises her head and thinks. She will not lie --- his temper is extraordinary. She has never met a man like him in her life, not even her father’s anger could match Donald’s. Her father was the perfect teaching guide for their initial meeting and relationship. She prefers that interpretation. 

"Your temper is pretty nasty too." Minnie giggles the unspoken question away, "You're more than enough for him."

"You know I am." Another arrogant fact, and she curls into the seat, "He isn't _just_ a foul tempered duck, you know." 

Minnie's eyebrow arches in wait for the stinger Daisy is holding, “Oh, really?”

“He’s nice, and he's _good_.” And her phone buzzes with a text message. Daisy does not have to read to know who it’s from. She taps the button, and she doesn’t try to hide the bright smile her lips suddenly pull in.

Her eyes begin to close. It will take them about forty minutes to reach the office, “I don’t know if I’m ready for this, Minnie. I don’t know if I can handle this," she yawns and stretches in the seat, letting the sun sting her closed eyelids, "but Donald is worth the attempt, and from what I've seen, so are the kids."

The atmosphere is all wrong for sleep, so she doesn't. Her mind still travels. It travels to the past, its present, and potential future. Daisy sees one girl attending soccer practice. Another joins band. A third stays after school for English and Math tutoring. 

Daisy sees a pair of sisters who used to like each other a long time ago, and she decides, the next time she chooses, she will choose better. 

She cares enough to do it. 

**Author's Note:**

> In my defense, Simple and Clean was on repeat during the second half of the story. I am dipping my toes into this pond, and if/when Daisy appears I know she will be nothing like the Daisy in my mind. And I am okay with that.


End file.
